


A Bridge of Ice with an Abyss on Either Side

by simonetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, bookverse, brooding Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonetta/pseuds/simonetta
Summary: The irony that the two survivors were those he had been least close with as a child was not lost on Jon. Not that he wished them dead in place of Robb or Arya or Bran. He’d never wish that.Never. Only, if it were Arya the lords of the north had asked him to wed, he would have no trouble giving them a swift, harsh, and clear answer.or When his lords ask the King in the North to marry Sansa Stark as a means of staving off civil war, only the lady herself can convince him the suggestion is a good one.





	A Bridge of Ice with an Abyss on Either Side

**Author's Note:**

> Note – So this is pretty much just in the bookverse. I did steal the plot of Sansa and Jon reclaiming the North together because that was essentially the one thing I did like about the show lol (other than Jon and Tormund’s friendship because I loved that too). While I think it is more likely that Sansa will return home after Winterfell is reclaimed and after some more shenanigans in the Vale (if she returns home at all), I have hope that the GRRM intends for Jon and Sansa to be the first Starks to reunite and that they will begin to rebuild together. There’s so much poetry in that storyline (and in a possible romance between them) that it will break my heart when/if it doesn’t happen. Anyways, enjoy this little snapshot. 
> 
> I promise I will finish my other jonsa story – I’m in the process of moving across the country and starting grad school and this draft had been sitting on my desktop for a while. 
> 
> Title is from the books. Bonus points if you know the quote.

Jon clenched and unclenched his sword hand, glaring hard into the dying fire in his hearth. This room had once been Lord Stark’s. For a lingering moment, Jon wished nothing more than to conjure up the man he had once believed to be his father; to explain to Eddard that Jon hadn’t wanted any of this – the crown, the room… Sansa. 

That would be a lie though. And while Jon Snow had told many lies in his life, he had never lied to Eddard Stark. _That didn’t stop him from lying to me, though. Did it?_

With a frustrated huffed he rubbed at his eyes. The truth was he had always wanted to be Lord of Winterfell. And as a boy, he’d dreamed of being a King of Winter like the solemn men in the crypts. However, he’d never indulged long in those dreams because he knew what the fulfillment of them would cost. And sure enough, sitting before the hearth in the Lord of Winterfell’s chambers – now the King in the North’s chambers – the cost of the crown that had been placed on his head upon his resurrection was far more than what Jon would ever have been willing to pay when he was a boy. Of all his siblings, only little Rickon and Sansa remained. The irony that the two survivors were those he had been least close with as a child was not lost on Jon. Not that he wished them dead in place of Robb or Arya or Bran. He’d never wish that. _Never_. Only, if it were Arya the lords of the north had asked him to wed, he would have no trouble giving them a swift, harsh, and clear answer. 

Arya was his sister no matter what Howland Reed had told him. Sansa though… Sansa was in so many ways a stranger. 

There were traces of the sweet, soft girl he had known. Her smile was the same when the cook brought out lemon cakes and she sang just as sweetly when visiting with Winterfell’s newborn lambs as she had while brushing Lady’s coat. She was as beautiful as he remembered – more so now, to be true. She had a woman’s beauty now rather than a girl’s. A beauty that sparked desire rather than just awe. She still took care with her appearance, brushing out her long, crimson hair until it shone and making even the simplest gown look like the garb of the Maiden herself. She still got a little dreamy-eyed when a travelling bard played in the Great Hall and she still smelled like fresh flowers and citrus. 

In so many more ways, though, his cousin was a stranger. At first, he’d thought it was because of how lost he was when he returned. Half a year spent in Ghost’s body had changed him, as had the betrayal of his men and the knowledge he had died and whatever strange, unnatural magic brought him back. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born._ The patience and care of Satin, Melisandre, Val, and Howland Reed had eased him back into the body and world of man enough that when a contingent of northern lords and ladies found him and presented him with Robb’s will and crown, he did not lose their favor, trust, or fealty. But Jon was a changed man – a darker and more wild man, prone to loose tempers and wild rages and violent distrust and a thirst for blood that frightened him. His moods only worsened when Howland Reed saw fit to share the truth of his birth. A truth that Jon would have happily gone to his grave never knowing. _All he had ever wanted to be was a Stark_. 

Then Sansa had arrived at the Northern army’s encampment one night with Petyr Baelish and the knights of the Vale, offering her support to his cause and bending her knee. When he had first seen her – the burning red of her hair in the dying sunlight – Jon had been so shocked he could do little more than murmur her sweet name. 

It had shocked him then, and still did now, how gentle she’d been with him from the start. They’d never been close as children and that distance was only greater when they reunited as adults wholly unfamiliar with one another. Yet, in his tempers and wildness she’d been nothing but calm, loving even when stern. It was Sansa who quieted him with a hand to his elbow when his voice grew too harsh in war councils. It was Sansa who held him close when he woke in a sheen of sweat and said nothing as his sobs wet her neck. It was Sansa who placated the lords when he’d disappear into the woods in the early morning, away from camp where he always felt there were too many people. It was Sansa who rebuked him when he crossed a line in his anger and spite, harsh but still somehow gentle in her words. 

It was Sansa who cleaned his wounds after battle. She didn’t say a word about the horrid, forever-half-healed wounds on his chest and neck and back even though he saw the fear in her eyes at the unnatural evidence of his unnatural second life. 

It was Sansa who simply nodded and kissed his cheek when Jon confessed his skin-changing to her. He’d said it in a stupid and bullheaded attempt to create more distance between them the morning after he woke from his first dream of her wrapping creamy white thighs around his head as he licked into her heat. But she’d just nodded and accepted him as she’d accepted all his other failings and even in an army’s encampment she’d smelled like lemons and kindness and home and he’d nearly cried. 

This Sansa was a stranger to the girl he’d known. She was quiet where the girl had always been tittering on about one thing or another. She was sad where the girl had been hopelessly and romantically happy. She hid her emotions where the girl had worn her heart on her face. 

He’d told her much and more about his time in the Night’s Watch during late nights around his brazier, and then later in his solar once they reclaimed their childhood home. She’d only shared snippets of what had happened to her – always more willing to listen than to tell – but he’d heard some things from those who’d known her in the Vale, and then more from Jamie Lannister and Brienne of Tarth when they arrived to swear their swords to the Lady of Winterfell. Even so, the woman Sansa had become was a mystery. A lovely, mystery. A mystery he’d happily give his second life for should anything or anyone threaten her ever again. 

The knock at his door was so gentle he almost missed it, buried so deep in his thoughts and his guilt. But then it came again, a little more insistent than before, and Jon called out for the visitor to enter. 

When Sansa stepped through the door dressed only in her nightgown with a thick robe about her slender body, her hair in a loose braid on her shoulder, Jon abruptly stood. The hour was late and her dress far too intimate to be proper, especially in his private chambers, especially given the talk in his council chamber that afternoon. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen her in a similar state of undress. They’d shared a tent for a brief time on the campaign. And then there was that one morning he’d been in such a rush to inform her of Rickon’s arrival he neglected to knock and walked in on her bathing. He’d only seen her pale back, but the expanse of smooth skin had been enough to fuel his more shameful dreams for weeks. The kind of dreams he woke from with a sick sense of guilty pleasure. He’d known then and knew now she wasn’t truly his sister. That didn’t make it feel any less depraved. 

She hovered in the doorway and Jon felt a familiar tug – the mix of desire to be closer and fear of her closeness all at once. “Come in,” he muttered, wincing at the hoarseness in his voice. 

Sansa did as he bid, pulling the heavy door closed behind her. As she neared him by the hearth the sweet mix of lavender and lemon that always seemed to accompany her these days followed. She came to a stop opposite him before the hearth and stared into the flames a moment before speaking. 

“I heard what the lords proposed to you today.”

The breath in Jon’s lungs left in an instant. She still wasn’t looking at him, her face angled towards the fire. The glowing hearth bathed her long, pale neck golden and made her hair shine as if it were truly made of fire. _You know nothing, Jon Snow_. He swallowed thickly. “My lady –“

“Did you give them an answer?” 

He felt guilty again despite having had no role in the request put before him in the council chamber. He’d been so blindsided by Lord Manderly’s suggestion and Lord Glover’s insistence that he’d left the chamber without discussing another word. Looking back, it hadn’t been a very kingly move, but how was one supposed to react when one’s lords request you marry a woman who was once your sister? “No,” he breathed out. “I did not.” The topic made him uncomfortable, as did the way Sansa’s eyes were now meeting his own. _You’d think a man who’d died and risen again wouldn’t be so afraid of a gentle lady_.

Then again, Sansa was a force in her own right. Not the way Arya had been. Nor in the way of Ygritte or Val or Melisandre. No, Sansa’s storm was made of courtesy and kindness and wit, but it was no less deadly. On occasion, he had seen the steel beneath her skin – most often when he lost his temper or forgot the courtesies that accompanied his new crown. There was no question that she was as much a wolf as Arya had been.

Sansa stepped towards him. Jon stepped back. Her Tully blue eyes tracked the movement. “Why not?”

“Knowing myself, some time away from the council chamber may help me form a more appropriate rejection than the one that was on my tongue in the moment. I intend to give the lords my answer in the morning, so you need not worry.”

She pursed her lips in a way he once would have considered haughty. Now he only noted how pink they were. “I am not worried, your Grace, and you are wrong to reject them.”

For a moment, Jon thought he’d misheard her. “Wrong?” he repeated, incredulous. 

Sansa nodded and took another step towards him. “Yes. You should not reject them if it is their wish. If it is what they require for stability then surely –“

“My lady, what exactly did you hear?” It was the only explanation Jon could think of for her line of thought: she must be referring to some other matter. How stupid of him to think that she’d know about the proposed marriage alliance, and even stupider to think she’d come to seek his opinion on it. _You know nothing_. 

When Sansa answered, Jon’s stomach dropped. “Lords Manderly and Glover proposed that you and I wed, did they not?” There was a little crease between her brows. “To prevent any future possibility of rebellion within the realm and to give you the Stark name, officially, as legitimization would now make you a Targaryen by name and the North will not accept a Targaryen king.” _No, but they would accept a Targaryen king disguised as a Stark, apparently_. “Are we speaking of the same matter, your Grace? Is this the proposal you intend to reject?” 

Jon sighed heavily and moved to pour himself some ale. “Aye, my lady. It is.” He held a cup up in silent question but she shook her head. It didn’t surprise him. His cousin rarely drank. 

“And why, may I ask, do you object to our union?”

“Why?” Jon choked out. 

Sansa nodded insistently, her brows now fully creased though in irritation or concern, Jon wasn’t sure. “Because I would not dishonor you so,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“How would marrying a king dishonor me?” 

“Sansa, truly you must already understand why I am saying no,” Jon insisted. 

She turned away from him again and walked back towards the hearth. After a long moment, she dropped her shoulders in a silent sigh as if her weariness had become too much._ It is late, she should be in bed_. Jon knew Sansa rose early to begin her rounds of Winterfell – she was not a lady to lounge about while others tended her keep. 

“We are not brother and sister. If that is your reason for rejecting the lords, it is foolish,” she finally said before hastily tacking “your Grace” on as if she hoped the title would smooth over her criticism. Being referred to as such irritated him almost as much as _Lord Snow_ had, but Sansa didn’t know that. For all she _did_ know about him, there was so much more she didn’t. 

Jon drank the ale in two quick gulps. “We may not be brother and sister, but it remains we were raised as such. That is not my main reason though.”

“Then what?” she asked, turning back to him again. “It is a smart match. We both know it.”

Now it was Jon who moved towards Sansa. “My lady, I intend for you to marry a lord of your choosing. I won’t barter you off – not even to myself.” _Especially not to myself. Not to a half-dead Targaryen bastard who stole your brother’s crown. Who stole your crown._

He was surprised by how much her dismissive scoff offended him. “Since I was old enough to understand marriage, I have known my marriage would not be of my choosing.”

“That isn’t true. I remember you. I remember how you loved the songs about Jenny and the Prince of Dragonflies – about Aemon and Naerys. The smallest kindness I could do you is granting you a happy, gentle marriage.”

Suddenly, Sansa’s eyes softened and it was like watching the sun rise over the Wall. Jon watched, near mesmerized, as her lips pursed as if trying to hide a smile. “You are kind, your Grace, but -” 

“Jon,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “Please,” his voice was softer now, just like her eyes. “Just call me Jon.” 

“Jon,” Sansa smiled. “You are kind, but even that little girl knew her place. I was raised to be a lady, like my lady mother before me. I did hope to marry a man I loved, but I always knew, or thought, Father would choose him.” She moved towards him now until she was so close Jon could have reached out and touched her. “I trusted Father to choose a man who was brave, and gentle, and strong. I trust you to do the same. I am too great an asset for you to squander. Noble ladies are born to build alliances. Such truth doesn’t insult me.” 

_It should,_ he wanted to tell her. _You deserve so much more than being a tool in my chest. You are more than a line connecting two names on a family tree_. “You will choose.”

Sansa looked at him for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes. “Fine then, your Grace. Jon.” With an almost defiant glint to her gaze she reached out and grabbed Jon’s hand in her own. The feel of her soft skin nearly sent a shiver down Jon’s spine as the image of her bare back flickered, unbidden, in his mind. “I choose you.” 

Instantly, Jon whipped his hand out of her own. 

“No.”

“Your Grace –“ 

“Jon,” he breathed out harshly, turning away from her because her eyes were too much for him to handle. “Stop calling me your Grace. I’m not your king.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you are my king. Robb–“ 

“I am not a bloody Stark! Rickon is alive and so are you. It is Rickon’s crown. Yours until he is old enough.”

Her hand was suddenly on his shoulder, pulling him around to face her again. The hard look on her face was one he recognized – the same one she’d worn when chastising him back on the campaign when it was harder for him to control the more savage tendencies Ghost had taught him. “Robb named you.” 

“Aye, when he thought Rickon and Bran were dead. When he believed Arya dead and you were still married to a Lannister.”

It was a familiar issue. It was the source of all this trouble. Most northern lords backed Jon as king, even after he’d told them he was the grandson of the man who’d killed Rickard and Brandon Stark. The son of the man who’d kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Something worse than just a bastard. Those lords placed Robb’s will above the natural line of succession as it was the word of the king, and Jon’s crucial role in reclaiming the north and Winterfell, as well as Sansa’s unwavering support for his claim, only bolstered their confidence in him. There was a contingent, though, who championed Rickon’s right as the only living son of Eddard Stark – the only living brother of the last king. Ever since Rickon’s arrival at Winterfell a moon before, little else had been discussed in council. 

Personally, Jon agreed it was Rickon’s right. But the boy was barely nine and wilder even than Jon had been when he first returned to his body. That, and the boy remembered nothing of Winterfell or his parents or siblings. He needed a regent, and that had staved off any true conflict for the time being. In an effort to prevent future conflict, the civil war Catelyn Stark had always feared Jon would bring to her husband’s lands, the union between Sansa and Jon had been proposed. It was a compromise of sorts, though Jon didn’t see how much it actually solved the problem. 

Sansa’s hand hadn’t left his elbow. “That doesn’t matter. He named you, and you answered the call when you took back the north. They chose you as their king, Jon. I chose you as my king. We both know Rickon isn’t suited to rule –“

“He’s just a boy! I’ll not steal his claim, just as I’ll not take you as my wife. I won’t fulfill every one of your lady mother’s fears!” 

At the mention of her mother Sansa stilled noticeably. Then, quietly, “Is that the real reason? My mother?”

Suddenly Jon couldn’t meet her eyes. Catelyn’s eyes. Catelyn’s eyes in Catelyn’s face surrounded by Catelyn’s hair. It was unnerving at times how much she looked like her mother. Like the only mother Jon had known despite her constant rejection. He wondered if Sansa was ever unnerved by his likeness to her father. 

Jon pulled his arm away from Sansa’s fingers and took a step back. It was useless, though. She simply stepped back into his space. “It is your whole family, Sansa. Your father saved my life at the cost of his honor and his wife’s trust. I was given the crown at the cost of your siblings’ lives – a crown that by the laws of the north doesn’t belong to me now. I won’t take you as well.” _Not as my father took my mother. I won’t be another Targaryen to steal the only daughter of Winterfell_.

“Father loved you, Jon. We all did. We do. It isn’t my family, it is ours.”

“All the more reason for me to reject the lords’ proposal.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Our union would strengthen the family. Our children would be Starks. You’re a bastard so naturally I’d give you my name. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? The name?” 

Jon felt himself flush red as his jaw tightened. “Not like this.”

“Yes,” Sansa murmured, looking down now. “Yes, I know that, Jon. Not like this.” 

Tentatively, as if he were a frightened animal, she reached out and grasped his hands in her own. The contact only brought into focus how much taller than her he’d grown in their years apart. How large his hand was in her small one. How rough it was compared to the softness of her. When her eyes met his again there was a fierce determination in them that nearly left Jon breathless. “For so long people have used me. In King’s Landing, and then in the Vale – I was a pawn. Those who were supposed to protect me, those who I trusted, family even…” she swallowed thickly and looked away. It made Jon tighten his hold on her hands. When she turned back to him he saw her familiar sadness. The sadness that hadn’t been there when she was a girl. “But you gave me my home back. You destroyed those who destroyed our family. You made me feel safe again. You protected me. More than anything though, you have asked nothing of me in return. Please, Jon, let me protect you now. Let me give you this. Let me give you my name and my children.” 

Jon dropped her hands. There was an ache in his chest that always seemed to rest there when he thought on what had happened to her – the snippets he knew and the holes he filled with his own assumptions and inferences. “You owe me nothing, Sansa,” he said softly. “Nothing at all but certainly not this.” 

“It is not about owing you anything,” she pushed back. “I want this, Jon.” 

“Sansa –“

“I’m not a child anymore. I’ve learned the truth of knights and lords. Of men. Of marriage.” The bitterness in her words caused a newly familiar rage to swell in Jon. Perhaps the anger wasn’t all that new. He’d always been prone to dark moods. Somehow, after death and Ghost though, the rage he felt was more consuming. Especially when it came to the Starks. Especially when it came to his former sister. Sansa reached up to cup his bearded jaw as if she could sense the brewing storm behind his eyes. “I understand your hesitation. I do. And I appreciate your concern for my heart and freedom. But I know your character beyond your titles and your father and your past. I know with you I could be happy. Love could grow.” 

It was suddenly much harder to meet her eyes. The hand on his cheek felt too hot. “Please,” Jon whispered. “Please.” It took him a moment to realize he’d said the word out loud. It took another before he registered how wrecked he sounded. 

Sansa’s brow furrowed. She was so close to him now that he could feel the warmth of her breath. Their chests nearly touched and the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose were apparent. “What? What do you want?”

It was all suddenly too much. Pale skin flashed in his mind again. Half the dreams he was so ashamed of had started just like this. Jon wrenched away from her and stalked back towards his desk wishing to the gods that she’d thought to put on more clothes before coming to discuss marriage. The dark wants swelling in his gut only served to remind him of why this union could never be. Why she deserved so much more than what he could offer as a husband, despite his crown. _ Kill the boy._ He had to make her see just what had been born of that boy’s death. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

Sansa scoffed behind him and though he couldn’t see her he knew she had rolled her eyes. “I’m asking you what you want. And I’m asking you to marry me.” 

The simmering anger boiled over then and though it was anger with himself and where the gods had led him, Jon did little to prevent it from exploding towards her. “It isn’t that simple!” He spun around just as she stepped back into his space. Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise at his hard, raised voice for only a heartbeat before they narrowed. Instantly, he regretted pouring his rage into this conversation, but it was too late. 

“Isn’t it? What do you think will happen if you refuse, your Grace?” Sansa’s voice had hardened now too. Silk ripped away to reveal the steel beneath. Jon knew the use of his title rather than his name was intentional. “The lords will continue to splinter into fractions and by the time winter truly settles in we will not stand a chance. The Others will take us all if we are not united. You know that even better than I. And we could not hope to face your brother to the south should he decide to follow in his namesake’s footsteps and claim the north again. Rickon doesn’t want the crown, and if he does when he is of age we can address it then. I am not opposed to the union and we are not siblings. Tell me what I am missing, because it seems rather simple to me.” 

Without thought, Jon gripped her tightly by the shoulders. The action made her eyes widen again. “Do you know what I am?” he breathed out. 

Sansa seemed puzzled by the question. It had surprised her enough to shake the anger from her tone when she spoke. “You… you are the king. You are Jon.” 

“Not who I am, Sansa. _What_ I am.” The clarification only made her draw her brows tighter in confusion. She opened her mouth and then closed it again with a frown. 

“You aren’t making any sense. What do-”

“I don’t know _what_ I am, Sansa.” Jon’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears. How could she not see how wrong it was? How she deserved so much more than whatever shade he’d become? “I died. I was murdered. Aye, I left my corpse to live through Ghost, but that doesn’t change the fact this body,” he removed his hands from her to gesture wildly at his chest, “is no more than a wight’s.” 

“That’s not-”

“It is true! You’ve seen the proof. You’ve seen the wounds. They’ve still not healed, Sansa. They never will. It’s not natural. It’s not right.” Tears were welling in her eyes now and a burning in his own made Jon think he may have been crying as well. He couldn’t think about that though. He barely registered anything beyond his need to make her understand. “I don’t know what I am or what brought me back or how long I’ll be living. If I even am _living_. Melisandre seems to think I’m some fated warrior and Val is convinced I’m chosen by the gods but truthfully, I feel more like a curse.”

“Jon, please,” Sansa whispered, her fingers reaching into the curls by his temples. In turn, he gripped her upper arms as if to anchor himself. 

“I spent so long in Ghost I forgot how to be a man. You saw some of that, but not all. It hasn’t left me, Sansa. I still long for things I shouldn’t and at times my anger and my… my savagery… it frightens me. You ask me to marry you but you don’t know what I am any more than I do. It isn’t right and I won’t condemn you to a life of it. I don’t deserve to be king, much less your husband.” 

“Did I care?” she whispered in return. Sansa brought her soft hands down from his temples to wipe tears from his cheeks and instinctually Jon did the same to her. “Did I care when you told me you are a warg? Did I care when I saw your wounds? When you flew into your rages in those first days?” 

“You should care.” 

“And yet I do not. You are Jon. I know _who_ you are and that is all that matters to me.” Sansa’s fingers once more wound their way into his hair. “I grew up with wolves,” she added with a small, sad smile. “I’m a wolf myself. I’m hardly afraid to marry one.”

Her words drew Jon closer to her like a magnet. He rested his forehead down against hers and let out a shuddering breath at the feel of her so close. 

“Please,” Sansa breathed against his lips. “I’m not afraid of you. Please let me protect you. Let me protect the north. Let me give you my name.”

“Is it what you truly want, Sansa?” 

“More than anything.” She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes. “Is it what you want?”

Jon let his hand cup her jaw while another slipped to her back. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a familiar voice telling him to stop; to put an end to this here and now because after he knew he would not be able to turn away. 

Instead, Jon closed the distance between them in answer to her question. Sansa’s lips were as soft as he’d imagined. At first, he aimed for a gentle touch. He had no idea her experience with men, and perhaps even less so how much she actually desired his attentions rather than simply his hand. But when Sansa’s hands tightened in his hair and she let a soft sigh pour into his mouth, all the control he’d fought for vanished. Jon hauled her closer to his body and let the hand at her back slip down to grip her hip tightly. Her hand at his jaw slipped to his chest to pull at his tunic as their kisses became more insistent, more bruising. When they finally parted both were breathing heavily. 

“Do not reject the lords,” Sansa murmured against his neck. The feel of her lips on his skin sent a shiver down Jon’s spine. He couldn’t have denied her request if he’d wanted to. Instead, Jon pulled away just far enough to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, then finally once more her now bruised lips. When he pulled away there was a darkness in her blue eyes that made his heart stutter with the fierceness of his wanting. 

“You are sure?” 

Sansa smiled and tucked a loose curl behind his ear. She let her fingers trace down the scar across his face. The gift of a long dead eagle. “Yes, Jon.” 

Pushing onto her toes, Sansa gave him one last gentle peck on his cheek before pulling out of his arms. “Goodnight, your Grace,” she murmured before slipping out the door. 

After a moment, Jon sank back down into the chair he had been occupying when she entered. _ Kill the boy. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :-)


End file.
